


Planning by Firelight

by betawho



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Adventure, Gen, scifi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:18:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betawho/pseuds/betawho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Doctor has been to many worlds, seen many sights, fought many enemies, and made many friends. And one thing he has learned. Never judge by appearances. And never underestimate the locals.</p><p>Even back then he could never stand to hear children cry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Planning by Firelight

He was sitting nonchalantly by the fire. A long-limbed, rangy man who looked like he'd been strung together from spare parts, and then started growing like a dandelion.

He was completely at his ease, one knee cocked, a hugely long multicolored scarf draped over it. A floppy hat perched on his head, and his big teeth flashing in a cheerful grin in the flickering firelight.

The natives ranged around him stared in amazement. This strange god who had appeared with a sound like trumpets, with skin as pale as moonlight and eyes as pale as water.

He cracked a nut in strong fingers and ate it cheerfully, proving his reality. He was hearing the history of the tribe from the elder. The headman, his son, sitting to the side, wondered what this strange apparition would bring.

"So, you're telling me, that the lumpy, potato men descended from the sky and took over your temple and killed all your warriors?"

"Yes, Revered One."

The stranger waved that away, tossing a pistachio shell over his shoulder. "Please, just Doctor. Too much reverence gives me nosebleed."

"Doc-tor" the headman pronounced, somehow implying it was a holy name. "Without the sacred stones in the temple, the children will fall ill and die. We cannot bless the waters without them."

The curly haired stranger took off his hat and slapped at a large bug that was creeping up his scarf. He looked around at all the copper-skinned natives. The firelight gleamed off rich skin, and hard living muscles. And that was only the women.

The silent watchers all around them were conspicuously thin of young men. And many older ones. Women with babes at suck, still held spears and determined expressions. Old men had their hands clasped on the shoulders of their grandsons. All of them looked ready to fight to the death for their tribe.

A baby coughed. The Doctor's head came up, his hat back in place. He zeroed his pale protuberant eyes into the darkness. "Let me see him." He held out his hands. A woman crept nervously into the firelight. A dark skinned babe clutched to her breast.

She stopped at the edge of the light, and resolutely stood tall. Broad built and big breasted, wearing nothing but a loin cloth and the dignity of her clan. Her infant son cradled in one powerful arm. She stepped forward and stared at the stranger.

It was a frozen tableau. The pale eyed god with his hands open in supplication, the proud mother, her child at her breast.

Then her son coughed again. A tiny cough for so small a body. And she knelt and placed that small body in those large, strange pale hands.

The Doctor looked down at the infant. Tiny, almost premature. He already had a sleek cap of wavy black hair, and the strange orangish eyes of his people. The Doctor made a sling of his scarf and laid the child in it. The boy coughed again, the tiny sound shaking his whole body, his pale-bottomed foot kicking in response.

The Doctor palpated the little chest, forcing out another cough. He turned the babe over in one large hand and rubbed its back, forcing out another wet cough, and checking the alignment of the small spine.

He sat the child up against his thigh and teased a tassel of his scarf across the infant's palm. It didn't respond. Didn't grip. Didn't even seem to feel it.

He looked up at the elder. "This temple. You say it's built over subterranean steam vents? The source of your holy stones?"

The elder nodded, and watched carefully as the Doctor handed the babe back to its mother.

"Yes. The holy pool below is used for healing. And the stones may be carried away to heal the sick."

The Doctor tossed a leaf into the fire. Starlight shone down through the tree branches. A glimmer of light glinted off a feather-decked blowpipe held by one of the old men. They'd nearly brought him down with those blowpipes. His scarf still had holes.

A wide evil grin flashed over his face. Making some of the villagers draw back with a gasp.

"Can your people swim?"

—

* * *

_For more stories by this author click[here](http://archiveofourown.org/users/betawho/works)._  
 _Please take a moment to leave a comment in the box below._


End file.
